250 
‘Tbt  RURAL  NEW. YORKER 
February  17,  1923 
HOPE  FARM  NOTES 
“Walnuto  Extracto” 
Part  III 
The  medicine  we  made  was  perhaps  as 
Rood  as  any,  and  I  freely  give  the  recipe 
for  those  who  care  to  try  it.  There  were 
great  bunches  of  dried  tansy,  sage,  mul¬ 
lein  and  catnip  hanging  in  the  attic,  but 
we  had  to  wait  until  Spring  for  the  wal¬ 
nuto  extracto!  Spring  finally  came  after 
about  such  a  Winter  as  we  are  having 
i  his  year.  It  was  good  to  see  the  trees 
changing  color  and  the  buds  swell.  “We 
went  out  and  cut  several  baskets  of  wal- 
nut  buds  just  as  the  leaves  were  sprout¬ 
ing.  My  uncle  had  a  small  cider  press 
in  the  barn,  and  this  was  stuffed  full  of 
green  buds.  The  cover  was  put  on,  and 
my  uncle  rigged  a  stout  pole  about  15  ft. 
long,  so  that  one  end  rested  under  the 
horses's  manger  and  came  out  over  a 
block  on  top  of  the  press.  Then  I  sat 
on  the  end  of  the  pole  and  thus  squeezed 
out  the  juice.  Yes,  indeed,  I  was  a  per¬ 
son  of  some  weight  in  the  medicine  busi¬ 
ness.  Most  of  the  time  I  sat:  astride  of  the 
pole  imagining  myself  a  hunter  riding  his 
wild  pony  across  the  plains.  The  cat 
came  and  .rubbed  against  my  foot,  the 
pleasant  sun  poured  in  at  the  door,  old 
Brahma  laid  her  egg  in  the  hay  mow  and 
cackled  like  a  prima  donna  singing  “Hear 
Me,  Normtt,”  and  all  the  time  those 
brown  drops  of  juice  fell  away  from  the 
cider  press  into  the  tin  pan.  It  was  good 
to  be  alive — and  in  the  medicine  business 
— until  my  aunt  came  out  and  saw  me 
riding  there.  While  this  was  necessary 
labor,  it  was  no  imprevement  for  the 
mind.  She  gave  me  my  choice  of  reading 
a  chapter  from  “The  History  of  Jo¬ 
sephus”  or  “Meditations  of  Marcus  Au¬ 
relius  Antoninus.”  From  choice  I  should 
have  selected  one  of  the  dime  novels  I 
had  hidden  in  the  haymow,  but  I  had 
enough  of  Josephus,  so  I  chose  Marcus, 
hut  somehow  he  took  the  joy  out  of  the 
day’s  wTork.  The  pole  on  which  I  sat 
was  no  longer  a  wild  mustang,  but  more 
like  the  sharp  back  of  our  old  horse,  on 
a  hot  day,  riding  him  at  cultivating  under 
the  low  apple  trees!  And  those  brown 
drops  were  not  an  “elixir  of  life,”  but 
just  plain  bitter  medicine.  As  I  write 
this  I  take  down  my  copy  of  Marcus  Au¬ 
relius  and  “seek  for  a  sign.”  I  seem  to 
remember  reading  this: 
:  "If  any  man  is  able  to  convince  me 
and  shqw  me  that.  I  do  not.  think  or  act 
right,  I  will  gladly  change,  for  I  seek  the 
truth,  by  which  no  man  was  ever  in¬ 
jured.” 
I  seem  to  remember  reading  that,  and 
applying  it  to  Miss  Bisbee,  who  came  one 
day  and  screamed  into  my  aunt’s  ear 
trumpet : 
"I’m  ready  to  be  convinced  that  mar¬ 
riage  ain’t  slavery,  but  I’d  like  to  see  the 
man  who  could  ever  convince  me!” 
*  ♦  *  *  ♦ 
We  “worked  faithful,”  as  Cap’n  Hoxie 
said,  until  wTe  had  more  than  twro  gallons 
of  walnut  juice.  Then  we  were  ready  to 
brew  the  medicine.  The  wash  boiler  was 
put  oh  the  kitchen  stove  and  two  gallons 
of  water  measured  into  it.  Then  the  wal¬ 
nuto  extracto  was  added  and  then  two 
gallons  of  strong  black  New7  Orleans  mo¬ 
lasses.  Our  strong  temperance  principles 
would  not  permit  us  to  use  Medford  rum 
as  we  had  been  advised.  A  compromise 
was  made  on  some  of  Deacon  Drake’s 
cider.  As  he  said  : 
"I  racked  it  off  a  couple  of  times  and 
added  a  peck  of  rye — then  let  it  work.” 
I  am  no  expert  on  such  things,  but  I 
imagine  that  cider  held  about  10  per  cent, 
alcohol.  Daniel  Ames  said  it  would  “kill 
at  40  rods.”  and  he  ought  to  know. 
At  the  back  of  the  stove  two  small  ket¬ 
tles  were  stewing.  One  contained  dried 
leaves  of  tansy  and  the  other  mullien, 
dried  until  it  looked  like  tobacco.  In  fact, 
the  bad  boys  at  school  used  to  smoke  this 
dried  mullein,  and  also  pieces  of  grape¬ 
vine,  as  substitutes  for  cigars.  There 
arose  a  little  controversy  between  my 
uncle  and  aunt  as  to  which  of  these 
"drugs”  should  be  added.  Finally,  while 
my  uncle  was  at  the  barn,  the  lady 
poured  in  the  tansy  tea.  Not  to  be  out¬ 
done,  and  during  her  absence,  he  added 
the  mullein.  Feeling  that  I  ought  to  have 
some  hand  in  the  brew.  I  slipped  in  two 
tablespoonfuls  of  sulphur — and  the  job 
was  done.  It  cooked  a  little  and  then  we, 
bottled  it  hot — using  old  medicine  bottles 
from  the  great  accumulation  upstairs. 
Ob,  it  was  great  stuff.  I  suppose  it  con¬ 
tained  a  mild  cathartic,  a  trace  of  some 
nerve  tonic,,  a  few  vitamines  from  the 
molasses,  and  a  little  “cordial”  from  the 
cider.  “Walnuto  extracto  !”  It  had  been 
a  busy  day,  and  at  supper  that  night  the 
old  gentleman  said  : 
“I  think  we  need  a  stimulant,”  and  so, 
though  it  was  an  uncommon  thing  to  do, 
his  wife  prepared  a  pot  of  carrot  coffee. 
This  was  made  from  carrots,  sliced  and 
browned  crisp  in  the  oven.  When  boiled, 
these  dried  chips  made  a  black  liquor  very 
bitter  and  somewhat  stimulating.  Cape 
Cod  coffee,  you  might  call  it.  The  boy 
even  had  half  a  cup,  and  at  that  time  I 
considered  it  a  drink  fit  for  a  king. 
*  *  *  *  * 
I  have  given  these  petty  and  rather 
questionable  details  for  a  purpose.  Of 
course,  the  moralist  will  say  that  I  should 
have  told  what  a  good  boy  ought  to  have 
done.  It  was  my  misfortune  that  I  was 
permitted  to  do  such  things  and  enjoy 
such  songs ;  for  the  sake  of  my  own  chil¬ 
dren  I  ought  to  forget  it  and  tell  only 
what  ought  to  have  been  done  in  the  sor¬ 
did  life  of  a  child.  The  trouble  about 
that  is  that  as  I  look  out  upon  the  storm 
today  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  consider  it 
only  a  misfortune.  I  shall  shock  some  of 
you  when  I  say  I  would  not  miss  it  out 
of  my  life  for  a  fortune.  In  fact.  I  am 
rather  glad  that  I  never  was  a  model  boy. 
As  for  the  medicine  part  of  it.  there  are 
today  a  great  army  of  “dosers”  who  de¬ 
light  in  swallowing  gallons  of  stuff,  little 
if  any  better  than  the  nasty  brew  we 
made  in  that  old  wash  boiler.  I  would 
do  almost  anything  to  break  them  of  the 
habit.  With  fresh  air  and  exercise  and 
milk  and  vegetables  and  fruit,  they  might 
well  “throw  physic  to  the  dogs,”  and 
possibly  kill  the  dogs.  We  may  grant 
that  some  forms  of  drugs  and  medicines 
are  needed,  but  the  day  lias  long  gone  by 
when  “swilling  dope”  may  be  considered 
a  legitimate  practice  by  any  man  or 
woman.  People  bought  our  medicine,  paid 
for  it  and  came  back  for  more.  I  am 
sure  we  had  our  share  of  “cures.”  I  can 
tell  you  that  some  of  the  “home  doctor¬ 
ing”  in  that  day  was  remarkable.  I  re¬ 
member  the  night  I  helped  give  Cap’n 
Iloxie  a  “wigwam  sweat.”  The  captain 
was  a  good  customer,  although  he  pre¬ 
ferred  to  mix  our  medicine  half  and  half 
with  tar  water.  Being  a  mariner,  he 
thoroughly  believed  in  tar.  As  he  did  not 
pay  for  his  medicine,  a  coolness  developed 
between  the  families,  and  we  did  not  see 
the  captain  for  some  days.  Then  came  a 
had.  stormy  day,  and  we  noticed  that 
Cap’n  Iloxie  did  not  even  come  out  to 
shovel  a  path. 
“Must  be  sick.”  said  my  uncle,  and  he 
felt  a  little  troubled  at  the  difference  with 
his  neighbor.  Finally  I  was  sent  over 
with  a  shovel  to  dig  a  path,  and  a  bottle 
of  medicine  to  heal  the  breach  between 
the  two  families.  I  found  the  captain  in 
a  bad  way.  lie  sat  by  the  stove,  leaning 
forward  in  his  chair,  a  picture  of  misery. 
“No,  I  ain’t  right.  Tail  feathers  is  all 
down.  Guess  I  ain’t  long  for  this  world.” 
Ilis  daughter  hovered  about  him, 
wringing  her  hands. 
“Oh,  father,  ain’t  it  awful!  What 
shall  we  do?  The  doctor  can’t  come.” 
Mrs.  Iloxie  was  a  woman  of  sterner 
qualities,  and  she  rose  to  the  occasion. 
“We  don’t  want  any  doctor.  Now, 
Simon  Iloxie,  you’re  going  to  have  a  good 
wigwam  sweat.  You  get  them  clothes  off 
right  away.  Don’t  you  tell  me!" 
And  she  did  it.  I  went  out  and  split 
wood  and  crammed  the  stove  until  it 
roared  itself  red.  It  had  been  said  that 
Cap’n  Iloxie  was  a  terrible  man  on  board 
ship — far  out  at  sea.  He  ruled  his  men 
with  a  belaying  pin  and  a  hard  fist,  but 
here  another  officer,  greater  than  he,  was 
on  the  quarter  deck,  and  the  woman  had 
her  way.  We  put  the  captain  beside  the 
fire  in  a  rush-bottomed  chair.  Then  they 
took  an  old  lantern,  lighted  the  wbale- 
oil  wick  and  put  if  under  the  chair.  Mrs. 
Iloxie  cut  pieces  of  salt  pork,  put  them 
on  the  soles  ,of  her  husband’s  feet  and 
bound  them  on  with  cloths.  They  put 
his  feet  in  a  bucket  and  poured  in  boiling 
water,  regardless  of  aim.  They  threw  a 
thick  blanket  over  him  so  that  it  fitted 
close  around  his  neck  and  hung  down 
around  him  like  a  tent.  That  was  what 
they  called  a  “wigwam  sweat,”  for  the 
poor  captain  was  inclosed  inside  the  blan¬ 
ket  with  the  hot  water  and  the  lantern. 
He  groaned  and  swore,  and  tried  to  take 
his  boiling  feet  out  of  that  bucket,  but 
his  wife  held  him  to  it.  There  was  no 
escape. 
“Keep  them  legs  down.  Simon  Iloxie. 
Ain’t  ye  ’shamed  to  rebel  when  a  good 
wigwam  sweat  is  what  you  need?” 
And  he  got  it.  We  should  call  it  a 
Turkish  bath  in  these  degenerate  days, 
and  it  would  cost  several  dollars.  Cap’n 
Iloxie  got  his  wigwam  sweat  for  nothing, 
unless  we  can  put  a  price  on  his  wife’s 
emphatic  remarks.  She  mixed  up  some 
terrible  decoction  of  red  pepper  and  gin¬ 
ger,  and  the  captain  was  forced  to  swal¬ 
low  nearly  a  pint  of  it,  mixed  half  and 
half  with  our  medicine! 
Well,  it  helped  him  and  gave  him  an 
appetite  for  supper.  “Wigwam  sweat” 
and  pepper  tea.  and  a  lonely  house  from 
which  even  the  neighbors  were  shut 
away!  It  is  hard  for  me  to  realize  that 
I  lived  at  such  a  time,  and  have  moved 
on  almost  unconsciously  to  another  day 
so  different  from  the  former  that  it  seems 
impossible  to  reconcile  them.  Upstairs 
our  own  invalid  is  improving.  No  pepper 
tea  or  wigwam  sweat  for  her.  Practically 
no  medicine  is  given  her.  Tt  is  chiefly  a 
matter  of  diet,  and  a  dozen  States  or  coun¬ 
tries  contribute  their  food.  Cap’n  Iloxie 
sat  in  his  lonely  house,  shut  away  by  the 
storm.  With  us  the  storm  is  just  as  bad, 
but  our  patient  sits  with  a  receiver  at 
her  ear  and  has  just  been  listening  to  a 
voice  from  Davenport,  la.  Far  over 
water  and  wind,  mountain  and  valley, 
this  voice  came  through  the  storm  to  New 
Jersey.  It  is  wonderful.  What  contrasts 
a  man  of  my  age  has  seen.  We  seem  to 
have  fqund  the  spirit  of  life,  but'not  in 
wain ut o  extracto.  tt.  w.  c. 
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